She is one of the last living legends of the Great Rat Pack era, that time during the '50s and '60s when Frank and Sammy and Dean and Peter and Joey (and sometimes Angie and Shirley) banded together, for fun and profit, and made their marks on Las Vegas. But Dorothy Keely Smith is much more than just a footnote to show-biz lore. For nearly 50 years, the Cherokee-Irish singer has thrilled audiences worldwide, usually partnered with her husband Louis Prima, who discovered her when she was 16. Although Prima was twice her age, they fell madly in love, married in 1953, raised a family and helped define Las Vegas as a neon-glaring crowd-pleaser.

Audiences clamored for the contrast: She was delicate and deadpan; he was Sicilian with broad features and a coarse swagger. By 1959, they were knighted the "King and Queen of Las Vegas," filling the Sahara Hotel with such fans as Frank Sinatra, Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart, Howard Hughes, Elvis Presley and John F. Kennedy. They won a Grammy for "That Old Black Magic;" Dinah Shore dubbed them as "the greatest nightclub act in the country."

Prima died in 1978, but Smith, now 73, continues to work, often at Scullers in Boston, more often on CD. Her latest recording, Vegas '58 --- Today (Concord Records) is a hommage to Prima and The City That Never Sleeps. It's a cool and hip and retro CD, prompting the stuffy New Yorker to slobber that Smith "is both legendary and underrated. She can sing the stuffing out of a ballad as well as swing any tune into the stratosphere."

Here, Smith recalls how her past created the present.

Let's start off by chatting about that gravely-voiced wonder Louis Prima. Do you remember the first time you met?

It was the summer of 1947, and my stepfather had taken us to New York. It was so hot we decided to go to Atlantic City instead. My brother and I were real jitterbug nuts, and we noticed a sign out on the steel pier that read, "Louis Prima and His Orchestra." We wanted to see what this band was about; there must have been a hundred and fifty people standing around the bandstand. I was eager to see what was so special about this man, so I made my way up to the stage. I saw Louis, and was absolutely mesmerized. He was unbelievable! I'd seen bandleaders just stand in front of an orchestra and wave the baton, but I had never seen anyone with so much energy or humor. He was wonderful.

And 'wonderful' lead to a long career and marriage.

Louis was extremely sexy. He had something about him that was almost animalistic. He was so intense and had such command of the music and the audience. And the way he moved his legs! You know, Louis was the original Elvis, and I believe somewhere along the line, Elvis even gave credit to Louis for that.

Talk a bit about Las Vegas in the early daze -- before the Segfried and Roy-type of multi-million extravaganzas.

Louis and I were at rock bottom, working little joints and dives around the country. We had no money and I was pregnant, so Louis called a friend who was the entertainment director of the Sahara Hotel. He offered us two weeks at the lounge, and we jumped at the opportunity. Las Vegas was small when we got there, just about thirty thousand people. It was nothing like it is today. People out of different cities ran the hotels, and the only road that wasn't dirt was the Strip. But it was so personable and charming; if you walked into a hotel, they treated you like royalty. There were always flowers in your room and they called you by your name.

Your voice is almost as famous as your deadpan expression. How did that come about?

I was very shy off-stage. I didn't talk to anybody. During intermission, I would go to the ladies' room and read a book. Even when Sinatra was in the audience, I'd say hello, then disappear into the restroom. We did five shows a night, from midnight to six in the morning, with each show about forty-five minutes. For the first half-hour, I did nothing, just stand at the edge of the stage and watch the audience and casino. I could see who was coming in with who and who was leaving. When Louis would pull at my skirt and pull me on stage, I was so busy being nosy that I became annoyed that he was bothering me. That's how the deadpan look came about.

Now on to your famous pixie haircut

When I joined Louis on the road, we were playing smaller clubs, big ballrooms all over the country and black theaters on the East Coast. But none of them had air-conditioning. One night on stage, I was unbearably hot and I noticed a girl in the audience with a cute bobbed hairstyle. During half time, I invited her backstage, where she cut off all my hair. I hear you had an ardent admirer -- Gene Autry.

When I was about 12, my parents took me to see him perform. It was freezing cold, and I made my family stand outside the stage door so I could get Mr. Autry's autograph. He asked me, "What's your name?" I told him, "Dot." Years later, Louis and I were working in Hollywood, and Mr. Autry came to see the show with a lot of other country guys and western actors. After the show, I went to say hello and said to him, "I know you're not going to remember me " And he said, "You're Dot, aren't you?" I was thrilled!